


Scarf Thing

by battle_cat



Series: Together [44]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Furiosa on top, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Max on top, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensation Play, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, creative use of Imperator scarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She reaches somewhere behind him and plucks the length of black cloth off the mattress. Winds it loosely around the back of his neck.</p><p>“Haven’t found a good use for these yet,” she says softly. She has that look on her face, the sly smile and the half-lowered gaze, that she gets when she’s about to ask for something…<em>specific.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’re lying sweaty and panting in a mess of hastily-discarded clothes when she first brings it up.

They’re on their sides, his face tucked against the warm skin of her chest, her fingers in his hair and one of his hands trailing lazily over her back as the night air cools them off. She reaches somewhere behind him and plucks the length of black cloth off the mattress. Winds it loosely around the back of his neck.

“Haven’t found a good use for these yet,” she says softly. He adjusts a little so he can look at her. She has that look on her face, the sly smile and the half-lowered gaze, that she gets when she’s about to ask for something… _specific._

“Mm,” he mutters. “True.”

“You, uh…” She bites her bottom lip in a way that sends a flicker of heat through even his spent body. “You could blindfold me.”

She trails a finger over his stomach muscles, watching it to avoid looking him in the eye. Her cheeks are flushed.

“And, uh…” He swallows. “What would I do with the other one?”

 

She feels herself go shivery-still when he wraps the folded fabric over her eyes and tugs the knot tight against the back of her head.

She’s let him fight her and pin her and fuck her while he held her down, let him bite bruises into her skin and tease her until she begged. But this feels different, a conscious surrender without a respectable struggle first, willingly giving up the ability to see his motions and anticipate. It makes her breath catch.

He used his scarf. She can smell it.

His hand is warm and solid on her shoulder, grounding. “Okay?” he asks, his voice careful. She nods.

His fingers trail, so lightly, up the line of her shoulder to her neck. She sucks in a breath. His touch traces down over the ridge of a shoulderblade, the barest brush of sensation from the tips of his fingers.

They’ve been naked together plenty of times, but she is suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin. 

His warm breath on the back of her neck sends a flicker of electricity through her. Fingers skate down her spine from her hairline to the small of her back. His touch fans out like wings over the muscles in her shoulders, eddies down the soft insides of her arms until she feels her living hand and the shadow of her dead one flex.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yes.”

His hands are on both her biceps, gentle but unhesitating as he guides her arms behind her back and ties the other scarf just above her elbows. The little gasp she makes when he pulls it tight seems very loud in the dark before her eyes.

His touch is on her forearm, steady, waiting again. The cloth is not wound so tightly that she couldn’t wiggle out of it in a moment of panic, and she’s flexible enough that the position isn’t uncomfortable. She can still feel her heart thudding in her ears.

“Mm?” His thumb rubs over her wrist, a question or a reassurance. She exhales a long, slow breath, as if she could physically expel the little shudders of fear that keep running under her skin at the feeling of her arms trapped behind her, even though she asked for it and this is Max and she is _safe._

He waits, perfectly still behind her, just the touch of his hand on her arm keeping her connected to him. After half a dozen slow breaths she can feel her shoulders drop, some of the tension bleeding out of her.

His lips brush a soft kiss where neck meets shoulder. It sends a shiver through her. His hands stroke over her shoulders, down her sides, and she feels another layer of tension drop away abruptly.

She can feel him moving, hear the soft pad of his bare feet and feel the changing direction of his breathing. His fingers ghost over her skin, floating off and landing somewhere new, unpredictable: a swirl across her stomach, the lightest scratch of nails along her collarbone, a brush against her hip that makes her quiver.

The fear is gone but the hyper-alertness lingers. She swears she can feel the individual air molecules pinging against her skin.

A thumb brushes without warning against her lower lip, dipping inside to where the flesh is wet, but as soon as she flicks her tongue out to chase it, it slips away. He makes the softest little hum from somewhere near her right shoulder.

She can hear her own breathing—not the high panicky whoop of fear but deep and ragged with want. All at once she becomes aware of the heat growing between her legs. He hasn’t touched her breasts, her ass, her pussy, but just the anticipation of where his fingers will land next has her vibrating. How is he doing this?

When he drags a calloused thumb down the side of her breast she moans. He must be able to see how hard her nipples have gotten. She can certainly feel it. She has a sudden mental image of herself, naked and bound and getting wet from just his teasing little touches, and _fuck_ , it’s _hot._

He’s back behind her now. His hands cup her shoulders, the sudden solid warmth a thrill after the feather-light brush of his fingers. His breath pants warm against her ear and then he’s kissing down her neck, soft, slow little presses of his mouth. She sighs, letting her head tip back against his shoulder.

His kisses flutter over her back and shoulders while a hand cups her breast, somehow finding all the rough spots to rub against her sensitive skin, and she knows he’s doing in on purpose, and she moans again. His hands slide to her waist, turning her and guiding her a few steps forward. She lets him move her, and she takes a step outward to widen her stance when his foot nudges against hers.

His fingers swipe between her labia and she gasps. He makes a rumbling noise of satisfaction that twangs something low in her belly. “Wet,” he says.

“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs in response. A slick finger smears across her lips.

The stone _thunk_ is him sitting on the bench on the slightly uneven floor, and then his mouth is on her stomach, a teasing scrape of teeth, his hands skimming over her ribs and sliding down to curl around her ass, keeping her in place while his mouth drifts lower and lower. She’s panting now, fucking _dripping_ for him, dizzy enough to be glad of his steady grip on her bum. Her hand clenches behind her back.

His mouth stops an inch above her pubic hair. “Wanna put you on the bed,” his voice rumbles against her skin.

“Yes,” she gasps.

 

His hands on her shoulders guide her, and she’s plenty strong enough to get down on her knees without the use of her arms, and when she moves to lie down he’s there behind her, adjusting the blindfold so she’s not lying on the knot in the fabric, easing her down on her back with gentle hands.

But then he moves away, shifting position on the mattress, and her own torso is suddenly very heavy on her arms. Suddenly _too_ heavy. With each breath she’s more and more aware of how trapped her arms feel, how exposed she is like this, how vulnerable it is not to be able to see.

He’s kissing her neck again but now she can barely feel it through the spreading icy numbness under her skin. She’s vaguely aware that her breath has gone fast and shallow. She wants to tell him to stop, try a different position, but all that comes out of her suddenly-dry mouth is a cracked whimper.

 

“Hey, hey.” The cloth around her arms loosens and slides away. She can’t remember how she got curled up on her side like this, or how she got so sweaty.

“Hey.” He pushes the blindfold up to her forehead, and the expression on his face is so intensely concerned.

“Mm.” She can’t seem to make her voice work right. “Just…a little too much…”

“’S okay. You’re okay.” She lets him pull her close against his chest, wraps her whole arm around his back and holds on tight. The buzzy numbness is already receding a little as he strokes a soothing hand over her back.

She snuggles closer. His erection presses hard and hot against her lower belly. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t be.” She presses a little closer just to prove her point. Her breathing is almost back to normal.

If she told him she was done for the night, he would accept it without question, soothe her to sleep and then get himself off somewhere silently. If she told him she wanted soft gentle sex with eyes open and limbs unencumbered she is certain he would do that too, and it would be perfectly fine and lovely, but.

But she keeps flashing back to the feeling of his mouth on her skin with no way to see where it was going next, the feeling of him touching her without being able, without being _allowed_ to touch back. The way it made her gut clench with want so strong it was almost an ache. She wants _that._

She tilts her head a little so she can nibble at his ear, gets a huff of breath out of him. “Was very hot before, with the blindfold.” She sucks a line of biting little kisses down his neck. “I’m still very wet.” He groans.

His hand is still stroking over her back. She slides it down and places it firmly on her ass.

“Mm,” he mutters. “Don’t have to—”

“Want to.” She scrapes her teeth over his shoulder and gets a little grunting huff out of him, the kind he makes when he’s trying to hide how much he likes something. She does it again.

He pushes her onto her back, rolling over to kiss her hungrily. Her pleased _mmm_ and her nails on his back seem to spur him on. “Liked this part.” She taps the blindfold between kisses. “Just…need to do something different with my arms.”

A considering hum as his gaze searches her face. His fingers lace through hers, pull her hand up to kiss her knuckles. Then he brings her arm up over her head and presses her hand firmly against the sheet. He pushes her half-arm up to join it.

“Don’t move,” he says, forehead wrinkled in mock-seriousness.

“And if I do?”

“Mm. Serious consequences.” And she can’t help a ghost of a smile from creeping onto her lips, because… _now we’re talking._

She bites her lip as he slides the blindfold back over her eyes.

She can feel him breathing, somewhere above her, and she has the distinct feeling that he’s just staring at her. Her fingers curl into the sheets above her head.

He starts with his hands again, a shiver of nails down her side. She arches under his touch as he lazily explores her chest, her stomach, the backs of her thighs, the ticklish spot under her knee that makes her release an undignified squeak and dig her hand into the sheets to stop herself from pushing him away.

She squirms with impatience when he spends an inordinate amount of time tracing patterns on the inside of her knee. “Want your mouth,” she hisses.

“Mm.” His hand slides up the inside of her thigh, drifting away frustratingly close to her pussy. “When I want.”

The sound that comes out of her is half growl and half laugh, because _of course,_ the teasing schlanger.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and she does, and then his mouth sucks sudden and hot on the inside of her knee. She squirms and a strong hand wraps around her thigh, keeping her where he wants her.

Little bites crackle down the tender inside of her thigh, and the she feels his weight shift, pushing her legs wide and sliding up between them. She writhes in anticipation, but his mouth lands on her hip instead of where she wants it, sucking slow and steady as if he wants to taste every inch of her skin.

“Come _onnn,_ ” she whines, and he just laughs, a rumble vibrating against her skin.

When his face nuzzles into her pubic hair without doing anything useful at all she can’t take it anymore, lets go of the bedsheets and tries to push his head into place. He catches her wrist.

“Said stay.” His mouth moves away as he puts her arm firmly back in place, a sudden, solid press of her wrist against the mattress that makes her twitch.

When his mouth returns to her skin he’s licking and sucking the skin of her ribcage. She moans in frustration.

“Told you. Consequences.”

She wails and squirms underneath him, but he just settles his weight heavily on top of her. She can feel the skin of her slick pussy spread open and hot against his lower belly. She grinds a little against him, aching for relief.

“Mm. Something you want?” he mutters, his mouth somewhere near her belly button.

“Godsdammit, please make me come.” Her voice is desperate and raw, and she somehow doesn’t care, here in the dark with nothing but sensation to drown in. “Get your mouth on me…make me come as many times as you want…please, Max…”

It turns into a whine as his mouth slides down her belly, into a moan as his tongue finally, finally brushes over her clit. “Yes, Max, make me come, make me come, fuck, yes…” She’s muttering incoherently, rocking against him as his tongue fucks slowly into her, and then words dissolve into gasps and moans, and then she’s crying out, writhing until he puts a hand on her knee and an arm across her stomach, making her come again, and again, until she loses track of everything else.

Except her hand, which stays fisted into the sheets above her head the whole time.

 

She feels like soup when he eases the blindfold off her sweaty face, like something worked over until it’s warm and soft and boneless. He uncurls her hand from the sheets and moves her arm to rest on her damp stomach, because her limbs don’t seem to be responding to her brain.

She blinks, the lantern-light seeming suddenly bright. His face swims into focus, nose and chin and beard shining with what seems like an absurd amount of her wetness. There’s a messy white smear of come on his stomach.

He wipes his face on the sheet and slides up to where she lies buzzing and limp with pleasure. “Sorry.” His eyes flick down to his soft cock. “Couldn’t wait long enough to fuck you.”

“Think I’m good,” she slurs.

He snuggles close to her, tucks his face against her shoulder. She rubs her cheek into his hair, messy and damp with sweat. “That was…” he mutters.

“An adventure?”

“Mm.” He chuckles.

She scoots herself a little closer to him, wanting the press of his body even though they’re both sweaty and smeared with fluids. “Next time’s your turn,” she mutters before she falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max's turn. 
> 
> Partially inspired by YoukaiYume's smutty art.

“You like touching me.” They’re kissing lazily, his shoulders resting against the wall, Furiosa still straddling his lap as a mess of fluids cools between them. His hands have been wandering idly over her back, her sides, stroking down the line of her thighs without his really being aware of their motion.

“Mm,” he hums into her mouth, because he does; he loves feeling her skin and the strength of her muscles beneath it, feeling her lungs expand and her heart beat under his palm, learning the touches that can make her shiver or sigh or come apart completely.

“What if you couldn’t?” With a playful smile against his lips, she tugs his left hand behind the small of his back. When his other hand lands on her waist she hooks it deftly into the crook of her elbow and pins it against his stomach.

He gives her a questioning eyebrow raise.

“What if—” She nuzzles under his jaw and nips biting little kisses down his neck. “—I could touch you wherever I wanted, and you couldn’t touch me at all?” She sucks a mark into the skin above his collarbone. He can already feel the urge to reach for her and the weird frisson of not being able to.

She turns her head to look up at him. “We have scarves. If you want…” 

She has a devilish little smile on her face, but underneath is a genuine question. He’s been bound and shackled enough times, none of them consensual, to know better than to say yes without thinking it through, and she knows better than to assume he would.

He’s already starting to think about how a scarf, _her_ scarf, would feel different than rope or chains, when she releases his hands. She plants a soft little kiss on the corner of his mouth. “You can think about it,” she says before getting up to wash.

 

“Have to…be able to see you,” he says a few nights later. “No blindfold.”

She turns away from bolting the door for the night and smiles at him. She is warm and relaxed and open but he suddenly has the full force of her attention and it’s enough to send a shiver through him.

“No blindfold.” She crosses the room to stand very close to him. He’s seen her shrug on the cloak of dominance like a second skin when she needs to intimidate someone, and she’s not wearing any of that body language now. His mouth is still dry.

“And—” He swallows. “Keep my shirt on.”

“Of course.” She doesn’t ask for an explanation.

They are both fully clothed, her prosthetic still strapped in place. She traces flesh and metal fingers down his forearms, then grasps his wrists and tucks them behind his back, high enough that he’d be able to lean back on his elbows if he were lying down. The motion brings her body flush against his, her breath near his ear. “Like this?”

He has to swallow again before speaking. “Yes.”

“Good.” Her lips brush against his temple. “Take off everything except your shirt.”

 

She winds the black cloth around his wrists and forearms carefully, her metal hand gentle. It’s snug but not so tight he couldn’t pull out of it if he wanted to, he thinks.

“Good?” Her flesh hand is on his shoulder, her metal one on his forearm. She’s not touching him anywhere else, her body held carefully away from his bare ass.

He nods.

She steps out from behind him and now that they’re actually face to face he feels slightly ridiculous, the urge to keep his back covered absurd when his cock is hanging right there. He’d been quite sure up until this exact moment that self-consciousness was not something he remembered how to feel.

If she’d looked at him like a piece of meat that probably would have ended it, but she isn’t even looking at his body. She’s looking him straight in the eye—careful, considering, still wearing all her clothes. After a moment he gives her a nod of reassurance.

She strips off with practical efficiency, hanging her arm on its hook and folding her clothes the way she does on the nights they manage to not leave them strewn all over the floor. She’s not putting on a show for him, but she’s not ignoring him either, meeting his gaze with a warm glance now and then, and somehow the simple routine and her easy nakedness has him halfway hard already.

When she steps close to him again he can feel the warmth of her breasts through his shirt, the tickle of her pubic hair against his lower belly. Her gaze is still focused on his face. He digs the tips of his fingers into a bound wrist.

Her hand drifts up and strokes through his hair, brushes his temple, traces around the curve of his ear. She leans in and gives his mouth a gentle, teasing kiss. Her hand slides down over his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle in his chest.

“Your heart is pounding.” He supposes it is.

She pulls away slightly so she can read his face. “Are you afraid?”

He shakes his head no, because…it’s not that. It’s not the past dragging him away to somewhere else—in fact, he can’t remember the last time he felt this present. It’s the way she’s looking at him, the aching carefulness with which she’s beginning to touch him, and that he’s letting her. It’s an entirely different kind of fear.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” His voice is raw, but the answer immediate.

She turns her head and nibbles softly at his ear, mouths with infinite slowness at his neck while her hand roams. He shivers when her fingers trace lightly over his ass and then around and up the inside of his thigh. She shifts her stance slightly and his hardening cock lands between her legs, a sudden tease of slick wet heat. He groans, nuzzling his head toward hers, trying to capture her mouth, but she pulls away from him with a sly smile.

Behind his back his nails are digging into the cloth. God, he wants to wrap his arms around her, get his mouth on her where he wants, make her moan. But she just steps further away from him, her eyes bright.

“Sit on the edge of the bed.”

She backs him up until he can settle down on the low mattress. It takes concentration, but he can do it without his hands. In this position her cunt is too high for his mouth to reach, but he nuzzles against the inside of her thigh anyway. If he got to his knees he’d be at the perfect height…but when he shifts a little toward her she drifts out of reach.

Instead she drops to her knees, nudging his legs open, a hand on his chest pressing him back to lay almost flat. If he sits up on his elbows he can still see her. She’s still smiling, moving soft and careful and slow but undeniably in control.

She ducks down to kiss the inside of his knee. “I see you.” Her mouth moves up the inside of his thigh, against the skin he always forgets is so sensitive. “I see you trying to reach for me when things get intense. Take the focus off you.” Her head ducks down between his legs, but all she does is suck a mark into the skin by his hip. “That is not allowed tonight.”

Her mouth is suddenly on the base of his cock, firm and hot, and he moans. He’s not sure when he got fully hard, but he certainly is now, a bead of precome lingering on the head of his cock. She licks it up.

He’s already dripped a little on the hem of his shirt. Furiosa slides it up to around his ribcage, watching him carefully for signs of discomfort, but he suddenly finds he couldn’t care less.

She tucks a bit of the hem into his mouth. “Shirt’s filthy enough as it is.” Before he can react to that, she’s back to teasing the head of his cock with her tongue.

She goes slow, just the tip of her tongue trailing over his skin, her hand on the shaft but not moving at all, her nub balanced on his thigh to keep him in place. When she sucks the head of his cock into her mouth he can’t help his hips twitching up, but just as quickly she’s pulling away. He makes a small, needy noise though a mouthful of shirt.

“Lie down.” She helps him maneuver onto the bed on his back, and then she’s swinging a long leg over to straddle him, her hips in the air but her face close to his. His shirt has rucked up to somewhere around his armpits, but it’s better this way because he can feel the brush of her hard nipples against his chest when she moves up to kiss him.

He expects her to grind down against him, but she lowers her hips just enough to brush against his cock, her pussy slick and hot and open like this. He whines. She rocks her hips slowly, clearly enjoying rubbing against the ridge of his cockhead but not in any hurry to make either of them come.

Her mouth is back, nibbling and sucking and biting at his neck, his earlobe, the exposed skin of his shoulder where the neck of his shirt has been pulled sideways. He’s vaguely aware of the whimpering little noises he’s making, the impatient twitches of his hips, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the hot line of slick she keeps smearing up and down his cock.

“Look at you.” She pulls back a moment, balanced on her elbows, and he has no idea what he looks like but her face is flushed, her eyes wide and dark. He’s aware that he’s breathing hard and his back is very sweaty. She runs her fingers through his hair and leans down again to kiss him.

“Maybe I’ll just tease you all night,” she whispers in his ear, and he makes a raw sound as she suddenly presses the full weight of her hips down against his cock.

“Please.” It comes out raspy and raw. “Need—” He breaks off with a groan as she does grind her hips against him, once, hard and slow. “Want…be inside you.”

It’s barely a sentence, but she rocks back to sit on his hips. His feet are braced flat on the mattress, and instead of just kneeling on top of him she leans back against his thighs, a sort of squat, and— _ohh_ —from this position her hips are tilted toward him and he can see her pussy, open and pink and very wet. He props himself up a little on his elbows, digs his toes into the mattress, determined to hold her there.

“Like this?” She guides the tip of his cock inside her and then slides down, taking him in all at once, and— _fucking God_ —when she moves her hips he can watch himself sliding in and out of her. He’s gritting his teeth not to come right there—she hasn’t told him to wait but he wants to make this last—and then she braces her half-arm on his good knee and slides a hand down to where they’re joined together, spreading herself open so he can watch while she touches herself.

He groans, hips stuttering, and she’s so wet and ready he can already feel the first flutters of her cunt twitching around him. He tilts his hips up just slightly and thrusts and she moans, sudden and loud, and he feels a smug little thrill that he got one moment of overwhelmed pleasure out of her.

She’s laughing at him, and then she squeezes down on his cock with the muscles inside her and it’s his turn to grunt and squirm, and she does it again, and again. She’s stopped touching herself and is leaning forward now, squeezing and pumping him while hardly moving her hips at all.

She bends down close to his face again, her features hazy through eyes he can barely keep open. “You can come now,” she whispers, and with a sudden rough jerk of his hips he does.

 

He’s not sure how much time passes before he’s able to form coherent thoughts, but he’s lying on his side and she’s untied his arms, and she’s running the cool washcloth over his crotch and stomach, wiping him clean.

She lies down next to him, her hand carding through his sweaty hair. He’s not sure whether she came at all in there, if she still wants to, but when he puts a hand on her upper thigh she moves it calmly to her waist.

He shrugs out of his shirt and tosses it aside. She scoots up so she’s lying a little higher up on the bed than he is, and he tucks his face against her breastbone, her chin resting on the top of his head. He can touch her now, run his hand over the skin of her back, smooth except for the geography of old scars he knows by heart. The scarf was soft enough it didn’t even leave any marks on his wrists.

“Good?” she ventures after a moment. He can feel her heartbeat and the rhythm of her sleepy breathing where his forehead is resting against her chest.

“Good,” he says.


End file.
